


Catch a Fast Cloud

by Dryad



Series: Night Moves [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen, M/M, Omega John, Omega Variant, This chapter is PG13, Unwanted attention, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have taken <i>liberties</i> with the Tube. Those of you familiar with the Jubilee line will know what I mean. Actually, I've just taken a lot of liberties with Whitehall, because I can. Also, I've never been there.</p><p>Seeing as I had to resolve a plot bunny I had unwittingly released upon this chapter, it took a little longer than expected to fix, because of research, <i>so much</i> research. If there are any Civil Servants reading this, I've kind of made a mishmash of the details. Sorry. Google can only take a person so far.</p><p> I like a minimum of 5k words per chapter, so it might be another two weeks before the next update. Never fear, sexy times are coming. </p><p>Heh.</p><p>Title for this chapter  taken from Cooper Eden's book of sayings for children, <i>If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow</i>. The full saying is: If the bus doesn't come, catch a fast cloud.  I think that quite suits John's situation metaphorically, don't you?</p></blockquote>





	Catch a Fast Cloud

Thing was, John _did_ have some anti-interrogation training. It had been very very informal. Late night lessons from Lieutenant Alan Birral while he was recovering from the IED that had blown up the truck he was traveling in, killing the Afghani driver. So as John sat in the interrogation room - and looking around at the plain (brown) walls, table and chairs, none of which were bolted to the floor, he felt himself relax. He knew he looked harmless in jumper, jeans, and jacket. Besides, as more than one person had told him in the middle of a bar fight, his appearance hardly struck fear into the hearts of his opponents. Of course, they had also said that sporting wide eyes that were sure to be a pretty shade of black later on.

John was left alone in the room for a few minutes, presumably to let him sweat. After his quick look around, he pulled out a chair and sat down, then waited. He assumed Sherlock had got away the same way he had got in; through devious means. They had known one another for only a few hours, but John was increasingly suspicious that Sherlock quite enjoyed being sneaky. And he seemed inclined to get John being sneaky, too. Which he was fine with, more than fine with, yes. After all, look at him now.

Dalziel and a different woman came into the room, Dalziel stopped just inside the door, arms folded and giving John the stare down. John switched his attention to the woman instead. She was pretty, with dark hair and strikingly pale grey-blue eyes. She was working hard at playing nervous. Or maybe she actually was nervous? Hunh.

The door opened again, a manila file folder handed in by an unseen person. Dalziel brought it to her, and with a side-eye at John, she sat back and began reading. Unlike Ella, who had noted his ability to read upside down letter - but never let it phase her - this woman made a point of keeping the manila folder upright in her hand.

That was okay, John could be a patient man.

"Doctor John Watson, thirty-two, invalided from the Army, married, no children."

John smiled a little, clasped his hands together and leaned on his elbows. "That's me. Now that the ice has been broken, who are you?"

"Cassie Peters. You can call me Cassie," she said, her eyes flicking from the open folder to his face and back again.

"I'm right here," he pointed to himself, then pointed towards the folder. "You can ask me all sorts of things that aren't in there."

"What relation are you to Mr. Holmes?"

Ah, the crux of the matter. Now, how to play it? But wait, oh - ! "He has information concerning my husband, Thaddeus Sholto."

"And Mr. Sholto does…?"

"Thaddeus works in Diplomatic Services," said John. Which was actually true. From what John had gleaned from Peter, Thaddeus had been deemed unsuitable for the Army, much to his father's disappointment. At some point during his years at Cambridge, he had dabbled with joining the MET - John had seen a single picture of him on the Major's desk, dressed in full mufti. He had got as far as taking the test to be a Detective Constable, when he was recruited by Diplomatic Services. This suggested he was smart, and maybe he was. Book smart, anyway. People smart, ironically not so much.

"I see he was in Afghanistan at the same time as yourself?"

"Yes, we met there," Technically.

"And what was his position there?"

 _On his knees buggering me endlessly_ , John managed not to say. "He was an Entry Clearance Officer."

"I see," she said, closing the folder and putting it to one side on the table. "And the reason to see Mr. Holmes?"

"Personal. This is the first time I've come to his office, however."

She nodded, even though she should rightly not believe a word coming out of his mouth. John hoped the odds were in his favor, and that she would not ask him to prove any of what he had said. "How did you get into this building?"

"I knocked and walked in. I'm sure you can check that with CCTV and whatever else you have in here."

"We already have, thank you. How do you know Kevin Jackson?"

"Who - oh, the bloke who let me in?"

"That would be him, yes," she answered equally drily.

He shrugged, shook his head. "I don't. But he must know me, he led me to Mr. Holmes' office directly."

She nodded again. "Alright, Mr. Watson - "

"It's 'Doctor' or 'Captain', if you please," he said, just to make her irritated. "Those are my titles."

"Did your husband ever bring you to public or private functions in his position as an Entry Clearance Officer?"

John blinked. This…was not quite going how he had expected. "No. Well, apart from when we returned to the Brighton house. Major Sholto threw a welcoming party, but I don't recall who did or didn't show up."

Her gaze softened. "That must have been difficult for you."

"Let's just say marriage wasn't in my life plan."

Cassie glanced down, twitched an eyebrow. "It was exactly the opposite, for me. I was all set and ready, plans made, guests invited, hall rented, food ordered. It's like one of those classic stories. There I was, in my fine white dress, parents standing next to me, waiting for my fiance when he decided I wasn't the one after all," she shrugged, a quick movement that showcased her bewilderment rather than acceptance.

"I can't imagine," said John, who quite frankly was wondering if this was a story just for him, or the truth. Either way, what was the point? Was he supposed to be sympathetic? Was he supposed to tell her something that he was unaware of? "Any prospects since?"

"Oh god, no," she shook her head. "Been put off for life, I think."

"That's understandable."

She glanced up at him again and smiled in commiseration, the grabbed the folder again, opened it. "Have you ever met Mr. Davis Poole or Virginia Arthur?"

"Those names aren't familiar to me."

Removing two large photographs from the folder, Cassie spread them on the table. "Have you ever seen these people at your home in Brighton?"

The scene was of a party, the camera angle odd, as if the photographer were doing their best to be surreptitious. The two people circled in the pictures were Caucasian, the woman's auburn hair cut in a severe bob. She looked the fashionable kind who only ever wore black no matter the occasion. Unlike her, the man had a cruel set to his mouth, and the expression on his smiling face was also filled with calculation. "Nope, I've never seen either one of them. Are they important?"

"Have you ever heard of Christopher Carr?"

He frowned, cast his mind back. "No - oh, wait. Actually, I think I have."

Ye-es. He had got up late one morning, aching from the bruising that had occurred during his fourth heat, coming unexpectedly quickly upon the heels of his third. Deeming a workout unnecessary, he had gone slowly gone downstairs, hanging on to the railing to minimize the amount of movement he had to make from riser to riser. On the second floor landing, he had overheard Thaddeus fuming at the Major through the gap left by the office door, which had not quite been closed all the way.

"He's right, Father! We can't allow things to continue on, we're losing our fingerhold in the Middle East, and if the Chinese have their way, we'll lose the rest of Africa as well."

John had crept closer, making sure his shadow, cast by the light coming from the hallway window, was not visible on the floor if anyone were to glance below the door.

"And if he fails?"

"Christopher Carr is one of the finest political strategists alive today. Even that fat shite won't be able to stand in his way."

"You're taking a huge risk, Thaddeus. One I won't be able to help you with, should you fail."

"We _won't_ fail, Father. Between the three of us and that B1, we have it covered."

The Major had sighed heavily, unhappily. "Your head be on it."

John remembered creeping away as fast as he could, spikes of pain shooting through his pelvis as he went. "Yeah, I overheard Thaddeus and his father mentioning Carr."

"Anyone else?" Cassie asked eagerly.

He shrugged. "No one by name, but there were three people and a bee one?"

"A bee one - you're sure?"

"Yup. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

"No, it's alright. Better to know than be surprised. Thank you," she said, rising to her feet. "You've been of great help." 

"Just doing my duty as a citizen."

"Of course. Dalziel will show you out."

"Thank you," he answered, getting to his feet as well. He stepped around the desk, keeping well away from her. Even so, as he passed she reached out and grabbed his arm. He looked down at her tight grip - knuckles white as she squeezed his wrist firmly once, twice - and back up at her face.

"Take care, Captain. Thaddeus Sholto is no fool."

John shook her hand off and followed Dalziel into the hallway. Now just what the hell had that been all about? Given Mr. Holmes' disappearance and presumed kidnapping, a warning about Thaddeus was the last thing he had expected. If anything, he had been preparing for something more…loud. Not even shouting, but the usual; sleep deprivation, the withholding of water and food, stupid music for hours at a time. This 'interrogation' had been far more ordinary, literally just a few questions. He had had far worse from old and crazed girlfriends.

Was she a friend or an enemy? One thing was for certain, she had given him warning, a message he could not decipher. Luckily, he knew a man who could.

One short hallway later, he was outside of Whitehall, staring back at its edifice in complete confusion. How on _earth_ had he left the seat of British Government and in less than five minutes ended up in a public park? Shaking his head in disbelief, he picked a pathway that had signs to the nearest Tube station, and headed to 221b. 

Back on Baker Street, it took only a moment to realize he had no keys. With a muttered curse he pressed Mrs. Hudson's buzzer. He checked over his shoulder while he waited for her to arrive. Now that he was outside by himself, he could feel the nervousness creeping up again. Definitely not as bad as being in the Tesco Express, yet at the same time even that minimal exposure, horrible though it was, had been the shock he needed. 

Yes, Dad. Start out as you mean to go on.

The door opened to Mrs. Hudson's welcome face, her pleasure at seeing him worth every bit of angst for the day. 

"Hello, dear! Sherlock's upstairs," she said, closing the door behind him. "Don't mind him too much tonight, he's in one of his funny moods."

Oh, well. Whatever 'funny mood' it was, he was about to find out. And god, the smell of whatever was wafting out of Mrs. Hudson's open flat door smelled heavenly. His stomach chose to remind him of the need to eat with a gurgle. "Thanks for the warning, Mrs. Hudson."

"Would you like some beef stew? I've made far too much for one person, and my freezer is completely full. It's all Mr. Corrigan's fault," She said, heading down the hallway. "He gives me a cut on the price, so I always buy too much. I'll just bring some up, but don't expect this all the time, I'm not your landlady."

" _You_ are a star!" He exclaimed, shooting up the stairs in happy anticipation of a full stomach for the second time in the day. At the top he paused, because, Jesus, it really had only been one day. He shook his head a little in amazement. A moment later he entered the flat, hanging his coat up on the hook before heading towards the refrigerator. Plucking his orange juice from the top rack, he shook and opened it, only to hesitate at the sight of something dark floating within. Eyeing it carefully, he decided he really did not want to know. In fact, he put the cap back on and put the bottle back on the rack. The milk remained unopened, so tea was the answer. Letting the water rush into the kettle, John wondered if Sherlock drank. More to the point, he wondered if Sherlock would care if _he_ drank.

Speaking of whom - "Sherlock?"

No answer. The flat was silent, the kind of quiet John had forgotten about. It had been years since he had been alone in anything larger than a single room. Still, maybe he should check? Given everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours - yes. 

The door to Sherlock's room was ajar and when John pushed it open, he was surprised by its tidiness. Though he was tempted to linger, instead he brought the door back to where it had been, then headed towards the room he was going to stay in. Which was a little odd. He was grateful, though, to have a space to claim. Someone had put his bag on the neatly made bed, and next to it was a plain cardboard box big enough for three or four Steven King paperbacks. He removed the top of the box.

The first thing he noticed was the gun. A highly illegal Sig Sauer P226R. A box of ammunition. He picked the gun up, inspected it. Despite the lack of a serial number, it was new and slick with oil. Mindful of Mrs. Hudson, he quickly stripped it, made sure the chamber was free of rounds and the magazine empty before putting it back together. There would be time enough to clean it after dinner. Laying the Sig to one side, he investigated what lay under the red velvet cloth under the box of ammunition.

Toys. There were toys under the cloth. The usual assortment of bizarre colours, a couple of items he could only guess the use of, and complete and utter embarrassment at the certain knowledge someone had bought them all for him. But what did they mean? Was he expected to go his heats alone? Because that was not at _all_ the impression he had got from Sherlock.

"John? Dinner's ready when you are!" called Mrs. Hudson up the stairs.

"Be right down," he called back, piling everything back in to the box, covering it all with the cloth. Red velvet. Someone had a sense of humour. God, he hoped it was humour. Ella had once said that many Omegas loved luxury on their skin, regardless of whether it was cloth or lotion or something else he did not want to remember. The conversation had been short, in any case. He shoved the box under the bed, then headed back to the lounge.

She had cleared a small table near the front door and set it with only one place setting.

"Aren't you staying, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, feeling quite foolish as he sat down, trying not to openly salivate at the sight before him; a basket of what looked like homemade dinner rolls, a pot of stew with enough for four, a bowl of mash flecked with pepper, another of marrowfat peas.

"Oh no. It's time for my herbal soother and my shows," she patted him on the shoulder. "I've got a hip, y'see."

"I'll bring the dishes down tomorrow," he said, reaching for a roll.

"You eat up, and don't worry, I'm sure Sherlock will be back in a day or two, he usually is."

For a moment John paused slicing his roll open - in the light of all that had happened, was he supposed to know or do something about that? Thus far his impression of Sherlock was of someone who was very intelligent, snarky, crafty. He was also annoying, yet so far as John could tell, only as a result of being a smartarse. Then there was this; John knew no one in London that he could call on. Harriet - no. He barely knew the woman. Of course there was Tom Quinn, he might have a lead or two, and if John had his number he could call. If there was a landline in the flat. John doubted it. Ultimately there was nothing he could do until Sherlock returned. 

Matter considered, he started buttering the roll. "Thanks for everything, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're welcome. I'm just glad Sherlock has someone in his life. He needs taking care of, that boy," she pulled out one of the chairs opposite to John and sat down, resting her chin on one hand. "I know his brother cares deep down, but does he show it, no!"

Once his initial hunger had been sated, John took his time eating. He learned much about Mrs. Hudson and her husband, now deceased. Her estranged daughter, an Omega who had married well and looked down upon her common roots. Her son, who was in prison in Canada for fraud. Most of all, her concern and caring for Sherlock, who 'worked himself too hard'. Finally, when he could no longer politely hide his yawns behind his fist, she took her leave. 

John made room for the leftovers on the top shelf of the fridge, taking pains not to investigate what else was in the closed, opaque containers on the lower shelves. When he was done he washed Mrs. Hudson's dishes, dried them too, carefully stacking them on the table he had eaten at as a reminder to return them in the morning. 

It had been a a long day. He was exhausted. He was unsure of what to do, however. Would Sherlock want him to stay awake, or go to bed? He really wished he had some idea to go on. Even though Thaddeus never touched him outside of his heat, he had always wanted John clean, maybe Sherlock was the same way. A shower, then. Retrieving his personal kit and a clean towel - he had given it a sniff to make sure - that had been hanging in the wardrobe, he showered and shaved, relishing the lack of hurry in this first night in a strange home.

Partly dried off and pleasantly relaxed, John chose to see if Sherlock would be home by midnight. Wearing naught but his robe, he made himself comfortable on the red chair and turned on the tv. Ah, an old episode of The Sweeney. Perfect, mindless viewing.

John awoke instantly, his heart pounding as he listened hard for what had roused him. After a second he remembered where he was, and why, then there was the briefest of sounds - he turned to listen with his good ear - a soft, unmistakable gasp of pain and a muttered curse. As quiet as he could, John peeked around the edge of the chair. He had left the light on over the kitchen sink, which was just enough to see that Sherlock was at the door, removing his long coat with a grimace. He was dressed in black, so it was impossible for John to tell if he had any wounds, but judging by the way the man moved, he was well bruised at least. Before John could decide what to do, Sherlock walked into the kitchen and straight into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Okay. John sat back in the chair and pondered the tv. His first thought was that he was amazed he had managed to turn it off before falling asleep. His second was that he needed to see if Sherlock was further injured. His third the realization that he could be a doctor again, even if he only had the one patient. With this in mind he rose and headed towards Sherlock's room. 

The shower was running in the bathroom. He called, "Sherlock, it's John. Are you alright?"

Knocking on the door provided more silence, leaving him to try the handle. It was unlocked, and when he slowly opened the door Sherlock was not inside. Not even in the shower. Then the other door opened from Sherlock's bedroom. He was wrapped in a sheet that gaped enough at the neck for John to see a blotchy red mark that was bound to empurple as the day went on.

Sherlock stopped short. "John," he said, clearly startled. He clutched the sheet more closely about himself, then continued inside with as much hauteur as he could muster. "You should go to bed. There's nothing to be done tonight and we both need rest."

John slid a little further into the tiny room. "And you should let me take a look. I _am_ a medical doctor."

"I'm fine," answered Sherlock, walking forward and forcing John back. "We'll talk in the morning."

John knew a dismissal when he heard one. He was too tired to fight Sherlock on it. "In the morning," he agreed, and left Sherlock to his ablutions, retreating to the new sanctuary of his own room.

Toast, tea, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were already at the table when John arrived, ready to start his day. Again. 

"Good morning," said Mrs. Hudson pouring a fresh cup of tea. She placed it in front of him as he sat down. "You look ever so much better."

"Ta, I feel much better."

"Now that the pleasantries are out of the way," said Sherlock. "what happened yesterday?"

"I'll leave you boys to get on with it," said Mrs. Hudson, heading to the hallway.

John waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps, took a bite of toast and a sip of tea before saying, "Not a a lot. A woman named Cassie Peters questioned me, the usual bunkum. Wasn't even particularly scary. But she wasn't concerned about at all, about who or what I was doing in your brother's office. She _did_ however, ask about Thaddeus." 

Taking another bite of toast, another sip of tea, John waited patiently for some kind of response from Sherlock. When he realized it was not forthcoming, he said, "Thaddeus? Thaddeus Sholto? My ex-husband?"

At Sherlock's blank look, John shook his head. How was it possible Sherlock had never come across the name 'Thaddeus Sholto'? Not anywhere? Did he think new husbands just appeared from the aether?

"Yes, yes, Thaddeus Sholto, ex-husband of one John Watson."

"He works in Diplomatic Services."

At that, Sherlock straightened. "Diplomatic Services - of course!"

"What? That makes sense to you?"

"Think about it, John. The story Tom Quinn gives us about Canadian scientist Ghislain Lalonde. Close enough to the truth, but not the actual truth, just enough to whet our appetites. The second part, about the weapon, which I agree was completely idiotic. The third, that somehow this all comes from outside of Whitehall."

John stared at Sherlock. How had he extrapolated all of that from John's interview?

"Oh, it's hardly difficult to reach the right conclusions. Finish your breakfast, we're going for a walk."

John did as requested, though he ended up trotting down the stairs after Sherlock with half a slice of toast jutting out of his mouth. 

Regent's Park was still lovely, though John had imagined they were going to end up someplace fancier. Perhaps it was the weather that made John feel like he was the forests of his childhood holidays in Scotland. The day remained cool and overcast with the heady scent of oncoming rain ever present. It was…pleasant…to be outside with his husband-to-be. Which made him wonder - was there going to be a ceremony? Or would he only be signing a contract? There had been nothing with Thaddeus, well, nothing apart from the presenting party the Major had thrown for him. In Afghanistan Thaddeus had simply claimed him in front of Dr. Owen. Had said, in fact, '"Captain Watson's presented, I'm taking him home"', and that had been that. 

Which, in retrospect, was nuts. When he had recovered from that first heat, he had pestered Dr. Owen until the man threatened to refuse to treat him if he kept on about it. He was still flabbergasted - and deeply angered - by the reaction of his fellow medical professionals. They had simply accepted it. Had said, Yes, sir, Of course, sir, When will you be taking him, sir?

Ella had said on multiple occasions that he was going to have to get over it. If he wanted to function as a man instead of a gibbering idiot enslaved by his hormones, however erratic they might be, he was going to have just deal with how he had been treated. No way to take it all back, there was no turning of the clock. John sincerely hoped his bedside manner was better than hers. Maybe that was why she had gone into Psychotherapy instead of proper medicine. The snark brightened him up immensely, and he had to smile at a random stranger walking their dog to shake off the humour before Sherlock noticed.

"There we are," murmured Sherlock, striding towards two men - one of whom was Tom Quinn - standing near a pond. Ducks floated nearby, eyeing them, looking for treats.

Tom nodded a greeting to John, who responded in kind. 

"Harry Pearce, good to see you," said Sherlock, holding out one hand.

"You as well," answered Mr.Pearce, who was dressed as if he were freezing. All he was missing was a Russian fur hat and thick white stole to complete the look.

Sherlock gestured and as one they turned to walk along the path, John trailing behind and listening intently. "Tell me who heads Diplomatic Services these days, and who wants to take over my brother's position in Whitehall."

Pearce shook his head. "You don't ask for much, do you? Gerald Stewart would love to sit in Mycroft's chair, but I think you'll find there are two main contenders, Virginia Arthur and Christopher Carr."

John started at the name. Jesus, Thaddeus really was involved in some kind of conspiracy!

"There's also Davis Poole - " Quinn began, stopping as Pearce shook his head again.

"Davis Poole loves the idea of being in charge, but has no actual talent at doing it and Gerald is closer to our cousins than his immediate family."

Though not a particular fan of the genre in novel form, John knew enough about spookdom to know Pearce was talking about the Americans. And to judge from Pearce's tone, there was no love lost between himself and Gerald.

"I'll need access to their offices," said Sherlock.

Pearce stopped walking. "Is that wise?"

"Possibly not. Nonetheless, it is what I require if I'm to find Mycroft."

Quinn looked back and forth between the two men. "Harry," he protested.

"Tom's right, Mr. Holmes. Too dangerous and not only for you," he said, glancing at John.

John silently bristled. He would hardly be an imposition.

"Besides, what exactly do you expect to find there, smoking guns?"

"I don't know, that's the whole point in going."

The meeting broke up shortly after that, Pearce refusing to entertain the idea of getting Sherlock into Whitehall, Sherlock arguing the point fruitlessly, John thinking to himself that he was pretty sure he was going to be back in Whitehall in fairly short order. Though, like Pearce, he did also wonder if it was necessary.

Walking back to the flat, John said, "So what's the next step?"

"Cassie Peters. Make an appointment to see her. Find out what you can about Thaddeus."

Though he was hungry, John chose to make the call before eating. It was stupidly simple. He called the Information desk at Whitehall - they actually had an Information desk, as if tourists dropped round every day to wander the halls of the British Government, buying knick-knacks. The mental image of nodding Gladstone's popped into his mind and he had to suppress a sudden giggle. He was of course put on hold while the call was transferred, the incredibly insipid music he was forced to listen to featuring a saxophone solo he supposed was trying to be 'sexy'. He was on the verge of giving up when the music stopped, followed by a series of clicks, each one varying in loudness. He would assume the call was being traced and recorded, his voice print taken. 

_"Yes?"_

"Hello, is this Cassie Peters?" he asked, miming writing at Sherlock, who stood in the kitchen with his _Jesus Christ! _huge hands wrapped around John's RAMC mug.__

_"This is she. To whom am I speaking?"_

"John Watson, we spoke yesterday? You were asking me about my husband, and I was wondering if you had discovered anything that I could help you with," awkward, awkward, _awkward_ , John. He grimaced, rubbing his hand hard against his forehead. Surely they must have known by now that he was no longer married to Thaddeus, right? Did it make sense, him calling to see if he could help any further against his own spouse? Ex-spouse? Maybe he could pull the bitter ex routine - he knew what it was like to be on the receiving end. 

_"John, of course. What time would be most convenient for you?"_

Oh - "I can come over right now, if - " 

_"Yes, absolutely. I'll see you soon."_

Holding the phone away from his ear, John stared at it as if it had turned into jelly in his hand. That…had been awfully quick 

__"Well?" asked Sherlock, rubbing rosin onto a bow. A violin lay in an open case on the coffee table in front of him._ _

__"I'm to go over immediately," John watched him set bow to strings, listened to him strike a note. "You play the violin?"_ _

__Sherlock eyed him. "I did say, yesterday. Here's a question for you, John. Why five instead of six?"_ _

__"Pardon?"_ _

__"Tom Quinn said that five had done the security at the meeting in Sevastopol, yet foreign action is not in their remit. By rights that should have been handled by Six."_ _

__This time John heard the capital letters and adjusted accordingly. "He did say they were requested."_ _

__"Yes, by whom, and what for?" Sherlock got to his feet and went to the window, began to tune the violin with quick runs of the scales._ _

__But Quinn was a liar. "Who's to say that wasn't a lie, too?" John asked, slipping into his jacket for the second time and it was only - he checked the phone's clock - only eleven in the morning. There was no answer from Sherlock, so he left to meet Cassie Peters._ _

__Only after he was watching the stops go by on the way to Westminster station did it occur to him that he was assuming he was meeting her at Whitehall. The very place he had been tossed out of only the day before. Unlike the majority of his fellow passengers, many of whom were texting and doing other things he had had no experience of, he had no phone and so could not call ahead, make sure they were meeting there. Maybe he could convince Sherlock to buy him one, make it a wedding gift._ _

__The train slowed and stopped. John followed everyone to the way out. The pace was glacial due to an unseen problem ahead, and then everyone further slowed to a swaying shuffle up the tiled stairs. Now that he had been outside a few times, the lingering glances sent his way by a few people bothered him less. He felt no stray hands upon his person, which would be easy to do given the close quarters. Nonetheless, he really wanted to get out of the narrow corridor. He felt his face flush and knew with absolute certainty that a panic attack was on its way. The rush of cool air from a train passing on the tracks did not help cool his hot cheeks, the faintest slick of perspiration on his forehead. He started Ella's breathing exercises, in for a slow count of five, out for a slower count of six. This time he could also feel the panic ebb away, to recede like the tide going out. He smiled a little to himself, because Jesus, was that a good sign or what?_ _

__A few seconds later a cheer went up around the corner, and people began to heave themselves up the stairs once more. John kept up with the pace, twitched aside when a hand slipped into his own. Without turning to see who it was - because he just did _not_ want to encourage some alpha to be more of a creeper by looking at them politely - he pulled his hand away. The stranger continued on, however, grabbing his hand again and squeezing hard. This time he looked back with irritation, only to be be utterly surprised to find Cassie Peters staring back up at him._ _

__"Hi, John. I know we were going to meet in the office, but I had to run out to WH Smith's and I saw you changing over, so I thought I'd just catch up in stead. Aren't you surprised?"_ _

__"You could say," he answered, becoming even more confused when she slung one arm along his waist. Her gaze was both bright and wary as she stepped onto the same riser. Keeping in mind who she was and what she did for a living, John played along. "Where are we going?"_ _

__"There's a little cafe around the corner, I think you'll really appreciate its quiet ambiance."_ _

__They kept up innocuous chatter; the weather, spy movies, Lee Child versus John Le Carre. (Not even in the same league, as far as John was concerned)_ _

__The Hole in the Wall cafe was one of those narrow one-shot jobs with not enough room to swing a cat. On the left was a long thin wooden bar covered with an attractive copper sheet, barely wide enough to hold a laptop, with stools pushed underneath. At the end was the toilet, and on the right, the kitchen and till. John ordered a black coffee, Cassie going for white with a sprinkling of cinnamon._ _

__Drinks in hand, Cassie led them to the very back, where the noise from the kitchen was loudest. She made John sit next to the toilet door, putting herself in front and blocking the view of him from the street and mostly from the other customers, who at this time of the day appeared to pop in only for take-out lunches._ _

__Cassie ripped open two sugar packets and put their contents into her cup. "I didn't expect to hear from you, not after yesterday."_ _

__The conversational intro left John off-kilter. He decided to start as he meant to go on. "What was all that about, at the station?"_ _

__She stirred her coffee, looked askance at him before taking a sip. She winced, blew on her coffee a few times, then set it back on the counter. "Dr. Watson - "_ _

__John waited. When she still kept quiet, he said, "What do you really want to know? I mean, you obviously know who I am," he paused to see if she would take the bait and tell him more than he was telling her._ _

__"This lies under the Official Secrets Act," she answered, looking at him intently._ _

__"Cassie, I'm a soldier _and_ a doctor. If there's one person on this planet bound by oaths of secrecy, it's me."_ _

__"Yes, of course," she said, smiling slightly. She tried her coffee again, added half another packet of sugar. "I used to work for MI5, but due to internal restructuring have been seconded to a different department. Part of my duties include information analysis - "_ _

__A spook by any other name, mused John. He sipped his coffee, grimaced at the flavour. Two quid for this? Criminal. Of course, this _was_ where the politicians were._ _

__" - and during that process, Thaddeus Sholto was flagged several times."_ _

__"What's he involved in?"_ _

__"I can't go into the specifics, but I will say his position as an Entry Clearance Officer is highly suspect."_ _

__John nodded, gazed at the passersby. "You think he's letting terrorists into the country?"_ _

__"I never said that."_ _

__"But it's a possibility."_ _

__Cassie shrugged. "Anything's possible, John."_ _

__Moving to face her, he took a chance. "What does this have to do with Mr. Holmes?"_ _

__"Ah yes, that."_ _

__The silence between the two of them was broken by a pair of boisterous men wearing grey boiler suits, chatting up the girl at the till._ _

__"We think Mr. Holmes has been taken by a person or persons related to your husband."_ _

__"Before you questioned me yesterday, I never would have thought Thaddeus capable of criminal activities, not in this country, anyway," Thaddeus was many terrible things, yet he had never indicated a deeper need to harm anyone but John, and even then that was mostly during his heat. Mostly. At Cassie's encouraging look, he continued. "When you're in the theatre of war, things happen. Nothing is clear cut. Sometimes you have to do morally questionable things in order to survive. You _know_ this, there's no way you don't know this if you've worked for MI5."_ _

__She conceded the point with a dip of her head._ _

__Alright, it was time to get to the nitty-gritty. "Do you know Tom Quinn?"_ _

__Cassie blinked, snorted. Wide-eyed, she shook her head. "Tom Quinn. A name I didn't expect to hear."_ _

__"I came across him earlier…Cassie, I need to know; are you helping or hindering Thaddeus?"_ _

__"I need your help, John. We need to know what Thaddeus is doing, how he's involved with Mr.Holmes."_ _

__A flash of inspiration came to him. "Why, is it because he _is_ the British Government?"_ _

__Her answer was equally quick. "Something like that, yes."_ _

___O-kaaay…_ "So why do you need me? I mean, I'm nobody. I've told you all I know, and…" Do it, John, just do it - "you know I'm no longer married to Thaddeus."_ _

__Once more, she blinked at him, and oops, apparently the paperwork had not made it through official notification yet. "Ah…I guess you didn't know that."_ _

__"Well…the point is moot," she said, brows drawn together tightly. "Thaddeus is no longer in Brighton, he's here in London."_ _

__Fear slammed into John like a mouthful of lemon juice. For a brief second he froze, fought the urge to run away from the lot of them, Thaddeus, Sherlock, Cassie. Then he gathered himself together. He was _fine_ , dammit. He would survive, he knew that now. Thirty hours from being in Brighton and he had gone from helpless to money in his pocket, clothing on his back, good shoes on his feet. He still had Sherlock's bank card, good enough for one or two cash withdrawals and a ticket to Scotland where he could disappear in the Borders._ _

__Cassie leaned forward, gently touched his hand. "Are you alright?"_ _

__John pulled away from her. Entirely too much touching was happening today. "Yes, yeah, I'm fine. What's going to happen now?"_ _

__"We find Thaddeus Sholto."_ _

__"How are you going to do that?"_ _

__"Super special spook ways, Captain," Cassie said, finishing her coffee and standing up. "I do appreciate you coming to meet me. It's cleared up several things."_ _

__"Oh," he answered, getting to his feet as well. His own drink he left behind on the counter as he followed Cassie outside into the suddenly bright sunshine. Still cold, though. "You'll let me know if I can help, further?"_ _

__"Of course."_ _

__John turned to walk away, then swung back again to find her staring at him with calculation. "Did you ever figure it out? What the bee one was?"_ _

__"Bee one is a grade level within the Government," she said, looking at him with little amusement. "A letter and number signifying designation of pay and rank."_ _

__He readjusted his thinking. "B1 - and the next grade?"_ _

__One corner of her mouth lifted at his suspicion. "Mr. Holmes is the best person to answer your question. Goodbye, John."_ _

__But which Mr. Holmes?_ _

__John returned to Baker Street, full of questions and few answers. The problem was that he could not make sense of anything. Mr. Holmes had been taken, and Thaddeus was clearly involved. Did Mr. Holmes know that when he had come to the house? Was there some deeper machination at work? Was John being played by all of them? Was he going to marry Sherlock after all, and if not, what would happen to him then?_ _

__Shoes and jacket off, John wandered into the kitchen and pondered his next move. He was still desperate for caffeine of some kind, or at least a better simulacrum of it than the burned water he had been served at The Hole in the Wall. He wondered which Sherlock preferred, coffee or tea. He had made tea yesterday, but there were coffee making supplies in the cupboard, along with a surprising amount of biscuits. Checking the milk in the fridge, he noticed there were new containers, each topped with a note as to what they contained. The script was delicate and old-fashioned; Mrs. Hudson._ _

__"No, I don't have a preference, so long as either one is made correctly."_ _

__John dropped the kettle into the sink, snatching it out of harm's way a second later. Heart pounding like the clappers, he turned towards the living room. Yes, oh yes, there was Sherlock, standing a scant few centimetres away. " _Jesus_ , where the hell did you come from?"_ _

__"I was behind the sofa, working on my monograph on the frequency of pigeons flying overhead from the start of a rainstorm to after."_ _

__John nodded, trying desperately not to let the ' _are you nuts?_ feeling reach his face. Sherlock pursed his lips sourly, and John went back to the tea, firmly keeping his shoulders down. Never let them see how nervous you are, was what Corporal Richardson had always said. "Mrs. Hudson's left us more dinner."_ _

__"When would you like to have sex?"_ _

__Say what? "S-sorry?"_ _

__"You heard me, John. Compatibility outside of heat is of the utmost importance. Wouldn't you agree?"_ _

__"You…aren't…you aren't asking me to have sex with you now, right?"_ _

__"Of course not, there's a case on. However at some point we should make the appropriate plans. Time, date, location, that sort of thing. You seem to enjoy eating frequently, I'm not surprised, you _are_ underweight, so a meal of some sort will be included."_ _

__This was, by far, the strangest conversation he had ever had with anybody, ever, and that included the time he had to give a stern talking to the fellas he had caught doing…untoward…things with dead sheep. Once again hysteria threatened to overwhelm him. "That's considerate of you. Should we not be thinking of your brother?"_ _

__"I am. Unlike everyone else I can actually contemplate more than one thing at a time. So tell me, what did Cassie Peters have to say?"_ _

**Author's Note:**

> I have taken _liberties_ with the Tube. Those of you familiar with the Jubilee line will know what I mean. Actually, I've just taken a lot of liberties with Whitehall, because I can. Also, I've never been there.
> 
> Seeing as I had to resolve a plot bunny I had unwittingly released upon this chapter, it took a little longer than expected to fix, because of research, _so much_ research. If there are any Civil Servants reading this, I've kind of made a mishmash of the details. Sorry. Google can only take a person so far.
> 
> I like a minimum of 5k words per chapter, so it might be another two weeks before the next update. Never fear, sexy times are coming. 
> 
> Heh.
> 
> Title for this chapter taken from Cooper Eden's book of sayings for children, _If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow_. The full saying is: If the bus doesn't come, catch a fast cloud. I think that quite suits John's situation metaphorically, don't you?


End file.
